


Halloween, 1955

by spinsterclaire



Series: For Imagine Claire and Jamie [15]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12679896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: Prompt: After [episode 305] with the making the 'batsuit' scene you should totally do a story about the first time Claire made some sort of costume for Bree.In which I assert my Claire/Lamb agenda onto a Claire/Bree prompt. *shrugs*





	Halloween, 1955

For the first time in my life, I cursed my juvenile disinterest in sewing. As a child, I’d mended clothes out of sheer necessity, the rigor of constant travel taking its toll on my shirts and trousers. I had cared little for skill back then, regarding the whole affair as a tedious chore that kept me from more important duties—namely, dusting off bones for Lamb.

As an adult, I was a surgeon, but even that seemed to do me no favors. Despite my professional expertise—how many wounds had I stitched with far sharper tools on far more delicate materials? —it seemed I still couldn’t manage a bloody Halloween costume. In previous years, I’d simply bought one or asked Millie, our neighbor, for a helping hand at the cost of a bottle of wine.

My break from tradition was inspired by a recent conversation, whereupon it was revealed—to the horror of several Betty Crocker types—I had no plans to slave over a Singer for the sake of my daughter’s trick-or-treating.

“Oh, but you _must_ ,” one woman had said.

“Your child would  _so_  appreciate it,” another had chimed in.

“She’ll be the  _only_  one whose mother didn’t make her costume.”

I’d rather thought Bree wouldn’t notice either way, she being the sort who’d drape a sheet over her head, stare through two circular cut-outs, and cry “Boo!” as if she were the most convincing ghost in the world. But the women’s scornful expressions had stayed with me, stirring up feelings I hadn’t felt since I’d arrived in America: a nagging self-consciousness; a desperate need to prove myself.

Bree was ecstatic when I informed her that I, not Millie, would be making her costume this Halloween, and what was it she’d like to be? Frank’s incessant prattling about the monarchy had clearly made an impression. Of all things, Bree had chosen Queen Elizabeth II, who’d been crowned nearly two years before.

If I’d known how complicated it would be, I might have scrapped the project altogether and thrust expensive merlot in Millie’s face. Being without such hindsight, I now had a half-constructed dress that looked more like a war casualty than a royal ballgown.

“You sodding  _bastard_ ,” I barked at the sewing machine.

My daughter, sitting not five feet away, looked up from her book with a delighted smirk. I groaned, already envisioning the moment Frank would walk through the door, greeted by an oral report of the day’s linguistic infractions (most of them mine). Though Bree shared her biological father’s penchant for mischief, she’d adopted the English reserve of the man who raised her. With frequent lapses, of course—she, after all, was my child too.

“Mama,” she  _tsked_  now, “you know what that means…” Smiling, she pointed towards the table beneath the window, which sat littered with the odds and ends of our daily life. The dried stems of pressed flowers sprouted from a medical textbook. A dog toy, practically chewed into oblivion, sat beside Frank’s corn cob pipe—a habit he’d taken up as a way of ingratiating himself to Harvard’s social circles. At the center of it all, however, stood the glass jar whose cheery label, “SWEAR BANK,” had become the bane of my existence.

Two weeks ago, Frank and I had been called to Bree’s school on the grounds of discussing a recent misbehavior. Our daughter, it seemed, had a fondness for words that were unsuitable to a woman of 35, much less a girl of 6. The principal’s meaningful looks had plainly indicated he knew where—or from whom—Brianna had received her vocabulary lessons.

“Children, you know,” he’d said, leaning forwards. “They don’t just learn these things by themselves. I think some disciplinary action could be taken at home…”

And so it was by Principal Gellar’s suggestion that we—the Randalls of ill repute—came to use a swear jar. For every curse, the delinquent had to add two quarters, with each subsequent offense requiring double that amount. A mild punishment, I’d thought, until it was obvious that losing pocket change wasn’t sufficient inducement to watch my own mouth.

Because of this, it was agreed that I prepare a proper dinner—from  _scratch_ ,  _not_  frozen—if I exceeded my daily max of five swear words. Frank promised to exchange his loose leaf tea for Lipton’s, should he do the same, though this was more a demonstration of his superiority than his solidarity. Unless provoked, he rarely said more than the occasional “damn” in Bree’s presence.

Rummaging through the purse at my feet, I extracted money from my wallet.

“There,” I said, giving it to Bree. “Happy?”

Bills in one hand, Bree counted her fingers on the other, “That’s six today, Mama,” she said, still smirking. “So what’s for dinner?”

I snorted and motioned her towards me. “Well, if you want this costume finished, I’ll have to take a rain check.” I looked at the chaos strewn about my work table. “A two-week rain check.”

“I  _guess_ that’s okay,” Bree said, skipping over to my side. “Daddy and I will have meatloaf tonight, and you can have soap.”

I laughed. It always baffled me how my child—once a gurgling thing with an untamable cowlick—had transformed into a human capable of swear words and jokes.

As they always did when Bree came close, one of her hands automatically rested on my head, tiny fingers submerging themselves in a tousle of curls. They found the tender patch behind my ears, beginning an idle massage that expelled all tension from my body.

She’d done this as a baby—then, with a naïve curiosity; now, by the simple force of habit. It reminded me of someone else, though I knew it was merely coincidence and not some genetic trait passed down through the centuries. Still, the small fingers always grew larger in my mind—pads turned to callous and nails made blunt—as they moved in slow, gentle circles towards my temples. I could hear Gaelic, spoken softly, and see a calmness wash over a startled horse, as it now washed over me.

I shook the memory away, and returned to the disaster cascading into my lap.

Really, there was no hope for it. Uneven hems. Too-large and crooked stitches. The circumference of one shirtsleeve would fit someone’s thigh, not Bree’s skinny arm.

“Smudge,” I sighed, “perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. I mean—” I gestured at the clumsy mess before me, and Bree removed her hand.

She leaned closer, head tilted to examine the work I’d done until her expression turned into one of obvious resolve. “I could always be a hobo,” she said matter-of-factly. “Or a garbage man.”

In that moment, I swear I had never loved her more.

Clearly unconcerned, Bree flopped down on the couch, and asked, “What’d you dress up as when you were a kid, Mama?”

“Come to think of it, I can only remember one Halloween,” I said, sitting back. “I was a little older than you, and my outfit was a hodge-podge of things. Somewhere between Indiana Jones and a girl who raided a closet, blindfolded.”

As a vagabond who drifted from continent and continent, Halloween never seemed to cross Lamb’s mind. A brief lecture, perhaps, about its pagan origins—but there was none of the pomp and circumstance one would see today. Being only vaguely aware of the holiday’s existence myself, I had never found us lacking for it. Our days were already filled with adventures, strange characters, and the spirits of years past.

It was one of Lamb’s colleagues—a charismatic American named Tom—who put forth the notion we hold a celebration of our own. Even I, who by this time was more adult than child, couldn’t resist the idea of being someone else, swapping ghost stories under a full moon, and gorging myself on sweets.

Lamb, bless his soul, was more than happy to oblige me. It was a belated birthday present of sorts, as October 20th, 1926 had passed in whirlwind of sand and dirt. The more immediate concerns of suffocation and hazardous winds had taken precedence over cake and candles that day.

Lamb and Tom took me to the market one morning, each of us bouncing from stall to stall to inspect the wares. After hours of browsing, we’d managed to scrape together a rudimentary costume, though it had none of the frills, silks, or skirts Tom had assumed I’d want.

“Are you  _sure_ you don’t want to be a princess?” he’d said, regarding me sideways. At the insistent (and fiftieth) shake of my head, Lamb had clapped Tom on the back with a jovial smile, reminding him that I was a girl who preferred slouch hats to tiaras. I recall grinning up at him, then, and taking his hand as we walked back to camp. In truth, I think I’d just wanted to be Lamb for a night.

And so there I was days later: a poor man’s cowgirl astride an invisible horse, galloping through the nearby village in search of treats. Naturally, few people were prepared for the presence of my wild-eyed, boyish self at their door. But most smiled at my requests—all spoken with a pitiful Southern twang—and indulged me with whatever they could spare. Lamb, meanwhile, stood at my side—an elderly pirate-guard who assured them we were not, in fact, bandits.

We returned to camp at sundown with a sack full of furry, odorous, and glittering miscellany slung across my shoulder. Against all sense, someone had given me a pack of cigars, and I placed one between my lips. Knees braced and arranging my hands into a finger gun, I did my best Butch Cassidy impression as Lamb inspected the bag for other inappropriate goods.

“That stuff ain’t yours, old man,” I’d said, words mumbled by the cigar. “Stick ‘em up.”

Lamb had hooted, crying, “Excellent, my dear! Just marvelous!” and took a seat across the fire. His head bent before a lit match, the flame lighting the end of one of the contraband cigars.

What I remember most, though, was his face when he looked up at me. My cheeks were flushed beneath a layer of grime. My too-long pants were pooled around my feet, while my dark hair was pulled into a bushy ponytail. I imagine I’d been the image of freedom and recklessness—a person who appreciated the simplest of joys, like dress-up and too much sugar.

“You’ve always favored your mother, Claire. But I daresay that right now…” And here, Lamb’s eyes had shimmered, his expression grown suddenly soft. “Right now I see so much of your father in you.”

“Mama?” A voice broke through the haze of my memory. “Mama, were you listening to me?”

“Hmm?” I said distractedly, slowly returning to the present. Shaking her head, Bree said, “Maybe next year I could be a cowgirl too?” before launching onto an entirely different topic.

Seeing my daughter chatting confidently away, her hands fluttering with the excitement of conversation, of being with someone…Seeing her hair catch the sinking sun and the mischief inside her curving mouth—a mouth that would never cease to amaze me with its jokes and its compliments and its observations. Seeing these things, and how her slanted blue eyes took in her shabby costume— ****unbothered by its inelegance but appreciative of the work I’d put into it—I thought I saw so much of her father in her too.


End file.
